


The Syntax of Things

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hangs back the longest. He isn't sure why, really—he knows he's welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Syntax of Things

John hangs back the longest. He isn't sure why, really—he knows he's welcome. In fact, he's about to wear _out_ his welcome if he takes any longer to decide.

Still, though. Days and days after Ronon twines around everyone else's ankles like a particularly lanky cat, after Rodney's decided he doesn't mind being used as a bed-pillow, John still has excuses on his tongue, holding his body stiff and awkwardly to one side, a mannequin instead of a man.

It goes on for nearly a month. He's grateful that no one actually says anything, but John can feel the weight of their gazes, the unspoken words. He hopes they're words of welcome, of longing quickly hushed.

Reality says they're probably exasperated by now, if not down right annoyed.

It's not like John _likes_ being so unsure. He isn't, usually -- unsure.

But this is _important_. It—he— _they_ —deserve a little time to really think about things, to make absolutely certain.

Or so he tells himself, anyway, and pretends the others aren't humoring him. That they're as cautious as he.

It drags out almost two weeks, long enough that John stops thinking about it. A lot of doors have closed because John's forgotten they're there, and when it's late at night, lying alone in his cold, narrow bed, he tells himself that it's best if this one closes, too. Best for him, of course, and for them, already so wound together that there's no room for him anyway.

Later still, when it's that painfully endless time before dawn, he hates himself for sulking.

But with dawn's light comes the masks he hides behind, and every morning he dons distance even as he pulls on his socks.

He believes—lies, dissembles, _hides_ —this way until he happens to see Teyla walking back to her quarters. She's alone, a surprise for eyes that have always seen her bracketed by one or the other for so long. She walks slowly, gracefully despite the roundness of her middle, carefully extending one hand for balance as she winds her way through corridors, taking the long way home.

To her _empty_ home, John realizes. One that will remain so for the next few hours.

He tells himself that she will value the quiet. That she will use her few moments of peace to meditate, or—

Or nothing. John watches, hidden, as Teyla abruptly leans against the wall, a knuckle pressed to her lower back. Her face is tight, focused, and John's throat aches with a question he can't ask.

If she wants peace, she'll tell him so.

John takes the transporter. He knows her habits, for all he's tried to ignore it. She'll walk the hallways until her legs tremble. John suspects the walking has become its own kind of meditation, flashes of stone-raked gardens and women with paint-pursed mouths offering him things he didn't want. It's never been his kind of peace.

He doesn't have much time. John hurries back to his quarters, grabbing supplies already neatly piled together, his body's vote long before his mind was ready to acknowledge it. Back to her quarters and Atlantis lets him in with a whisper that sounds like a sigh of relief. After that, it's easy.

When the door opens once more, John pops to his feet and scrambles to her side. "Hey, easy." Her features are drawn, grey with weariness. John tucks her against him, body still tiny for all it balloons at the center. "You know that you can exercise too much, right? I know Keller's warned you about pushing it, and don't think you can get away with it just because Ronon and Rodney are off some place else."

Teyla stays silent as she's helped onto her bed. John arranges her pillows—and it disturbs him, slightly, at how he already knows the height and thickness she prefers—while she surveys the room. There are candles everywhere, a trademark John acknowledges without even a blush, offering a warmer, softer light then Atlantis' silver glow. Incense burns in the corner, its smoke twisting lightly through the air. Water bubbles on the bedside table, kept warm for whichever tea she might prefer, a covered plate promising dinner later.

It isn't dinner, just crackers and peanut butter, but Teyla _really_ likes that, so hopefully she won't mind how inelegant it looks.

Teyla catches him squirming and reaches for him. "John, there is no apology needed. None of us would hurry your answer. But," she adds, smiling almost shyly, "I am glad to have it."

"I kinda do need to apologize, though. It's not like I ever thought to say no." He sits on the edge just long enough for her to frown at him. Right. No more distances, no more awkwardness between them. That's what his answer was, wasn't it?

He shifts and squirms, trying not to shake the bed too much until he's stretched out by her side, one arm instinctively settling over her belly. Teyla hums at the touch, arching into his warmth while her eyes flutter shut.

"Perhaps," she murmurs, hair drifting off her shoulders. "But not saying no did not mean you would ever say yes to us, either."

"I don't know what that means," he admits. He studies his hand, thick and knobby, as it rests over the golden slide of her stomach. The skin is soft, amazingly supple, while beneath it feels strangely hard. "We don't have to talk about it, do we?"

Her laughter is rich, dappled sun spots on a lake shimmering in high summer. "No, John," she says, reaching for him once more, "we do not have to talk at all." She seals her promise with a kiss, lush and slow with unexpected intent. This, her kiss says, will not be the last time he tastes the fullness of her lips.

He's okay with that. Really, really okay.

When Ronon finds them, he barely acknowledges John. Just greets Teyla with a brush of forehead to forehead, his big hands curling around her neck and shoulders, steadying her through the movements. Claiming her other side, he melts onto the bed, onto Teyla and John in equal measure, long arms and longer legs offering a physical anchor.

"Your soldiers are stupid," he starts.

John rolls his eyes, shifting so that Teyla's buttocks rests more firmly on his hip. "They're not stupid, they're _inexperienced_. That was the whole point of you going with them, remember? To tell me what they need to learn?" He needs more access to her lower back, a mess of knots and addictively touchable skin, heartbeat threaded underneath.

Ronon glares at him. "Can we send them back?"

"No, we can't." Unfortunately. John's not any happier about the latest group of soldiers.

But Teyla is sighing, shifting, and talk dies down. It's easy to be quiet and still, warmed by two -- _three_ \-- other bodies so close to his own.

When Rodney arrives, he brings with him a bustle of noise and chatter, hauling a cart behind him. "Dinner," he says, as proudly as if he cooked it himself, and then stops short, staring at the bed. "Well," he says, arms crossed, chin going up with a snap: shields up and operational, sir. "Finally made a decision, did you?"

"No, Rodney. That is not how we greet him." Teyla gathers herself, carefully shifting and redistributing her weight until she's kneeling on the bed. "Ronon, you will go first."

John has barely half a second to wonder what they're beginning, when suddenly Ronon is _there_ , looming into his face and stealing his breath with a kiss that sends trails of fire down to his toes. "Welcome," Ronon says, after. He's not even panting.

John licks his lips and nods. "O-okay?"

"Ronon?" Teyla says, again.

Rodney is braced for Ronon, weight on the cart as he's caught up in an embrace that looks comfortable. Casual, even, Rodney trusting the big hands that dig into his back, tilting his head up to accept his kiss—Christ, that's tongue, wet and sloppy and _hot_.

They've kissed before, John realizes. And then he realizes that twist of heat in his gut isn't just appreciation of how they look together, but also the a spikey, thorny jealousy.

"Do not close your eyes," Teyla cautions him, voice abruptly hard. "Not for this. Ronon, and then Rodney, please."

Ronon's eyes and hair are wild when he lets Rodney go. They're both panting. "And then?" Ronon asks.

"And then we shall see."

The kiss Ronon gives Teyla is a mere brush of lips. John tries not to feel cheated—it has to be for a reason—because suddenly Rodney is _there_ , just as big and imposing as Ronon. He wears no uncertainty or nervousness in his features, just steady determination as he crawls across the bed, up John's body to press their mouths together.

For one single second, John wants to run. _Fast_.

And then Rodney's head angles and John takes a breath through his nose, and they're kissing. Hot and dirty, John going from zero to six _hundred_ , so turned on his hurts because oh, he wants this. Wants Rodney's coffee-copper smell all around him, hands thick and greedy as they roam all over his body while Teyla laughs with delight in the background, a queen watching her entertainment as she makes a throne out of Ronon's lap.

"Now me," she instructs.

Rodney breaks off with a whine of displeasure, twisting so he can reach her mouth to repeat Ronon's oddly chaste kiss. John blinks, dazed, and tries to remember how to breathe: Rodney's heavy, for one, and every time he shifts his weight it drives his hips more firmly across John's cock.

Oh, god, he wants this so much. _So_ much. How the hell did he wait two minutes, let alone weeks?

John feels mellow, for all he's aching with want, body pliant as male hands tug and twist him upright. "My turn," Teyla breathes.

John goes readily enough, puckering for what he assumes will be a short, sweet kiss. It isn't. Like before, the first time, Teyla's kisses him slowly and thoroughly, almost carefully as she drags him to her, against her so that John could feel a fifth heartbeat, hummingbird fast, against his chest.

"Tonight," she tells him, "you will be with me. I wish it."

John nods, because how can he not? Teyla isn't regal when she says that, not commanding or calm: she's _uncertain_. Almost girlish, afraid that he might leave despite his promise to stay.

It's a hurt he's caused. Fortunately, it's a hurt he can heal.

"I'll be here," he whispers, ghosting kisses over her face, her neck, scraping his teeth behind her ear. She shifts against him and later, that will interest him, he’s sure. For right now, there is only learning her body, tasting and touching what he’s wanted for so long. What’s been his—theirs—for so long. Above him, Rodney and Ronon are playing footsie. "I'm not going anywhere."

There is no where else to be.


End file.
